


You're the Secret I Keep

by mostofthepieces (quantumofsolace)



Series: Love in the Time of Science [1]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-06-13
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:33:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quantumofsolace/pseuds/mostofthepieces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>"<b>You're the Secret I Keep"</b></p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> " **You're the Secret I Keep"**

" **You're the Secret I Keep"**

It had rained for the entire week. The clouds that descended on London were oppressive. Sherlock Holmes was inconsolable. He didn't have a case. Lestrade had called him a few times over the past months, but the cases took no more than a few hours to solve. He needed a real challenge. There was nothing to do at 221B Baker St. that distracted him more than a few moments. Watson was working at the clinic on a steady schedule, mooning over Sarah and reading various blogs.

"John!" Sherlock collapsed on the sofa. He hadn't dressed for days. His robe and pajamas were comfortable and familiar. "JOHN!"

Exactly five minutes passed before footsteps descended the staircase.

"John!"

"I'm right here, Sherlock." There was a lack of exasperation in Watson's voice was rather annoying.

Sherlock sighed. "There's no coffee."

"I set the coffee on a timer. There will be coffee exactly when you always drink it in the afternoon, Sherlock." Watson sat in his favorite chair and regarded Sherlock with what he had come to think of as a mix of thinly-veiled amusement and sympathy. There were things that he had come to accept about his life with Sherlock. The genius of a highly functioning sociopath could not be denied. He just wished that a new serial killer would come to light—not that he wished anyone dead, but Sherlock needed the work. Watson needed the danger.

"Fine."

"What if we went out for dinner? You haven't dressed for days. I'll buy. I got paid yesterday."

"I don't want to go out."

"I'm not cooking again. And no need to bother calling Mrs. Hudson because she went out."

"Yes, yes, I know. It's Thursday night. She always goes out with that old barrister. He thinks she has pocket money to spare." Sherlock tapped his fingers against his knee. His eyes narrowed in concentration before he smiled.

"Why are you smiling like that—I don't like that you're smiling that way. This isn't the proper time for it. I have to go to work in the morning."

"Front door in half an hour. Bring your gun and my coffee." Sherlock sprang from the sofa, whirling once in excitement. "It's perfect. -just the thing to pass the time until our next case. You need something to blog about. Your last post about working with the police department was abysmal. I want people to actually have something of merit to fill their empty little brains."

Watson didn't hesitate in taking his gun from beneath his pillow or grabbing his green army jacket. The gun went under his beige cable-knit fisherman's sweater at his back. Phone and keys were tucked into his jacket pocket. The coffee was brewed by the time he descended to the main floor of their flat to make the coffee. He waited by the front door, debating whether he should text Sarah to see what her plans were for the evening.

"John!"

"I'm at the door, Sherlock."

"I can't find my scarf!"

"Wear another one." Watson replied with a smile.

"It's my favorite scarf. I don't want another."

"Maybe it was mixed up in the laundry. I'll pick up the dry cleaning tomorrow."

Sherlock descended the stairs tying a scarf, much like the aforementioned favorite, though a rich burgundy. "Perhaps we shouldn't go out."

"I'm starving…we need to go out."

Sherlock reached for his cup of coffee. "I'll need another if I'm going to wear this awful thing."

"Fine. I'll go make you another while you drink this one." Watson forced himself not to smile as he hurried back upstairs. He left Sherlock to nurse the coffee. As he passed his chair, he reached down to check the positioning of the flag pillow. The edge of navy scarf was just visible. He picked up the pillow, folded the scarf into a neater square, and paused only once to inhale the rather unique scent of Sherlock Holmes.

"John!"

He tucked the scarf further behind the cushions of his chair and adjusted the pillow. He glanced at his watch before taking a seat in the chair.

"JOHN!"

* * *

It was raining steadily when they finally made their way onto the sidewalk in front of 221B Baker St. with umbrellas in hand.

"You know…you don't have to be so precise in your stubborn refusal to come when I'm calling you." Sherlock observed as he hailed the taxi. "You have a stubborn streak, John. Probably comes from your inability to control certain aspects of your life."

Watson shrugged. "I always come anyway, Sherlock. I can tell when it's important by the tone of your voice."

"Now you're analyzing details?" Sherlock leaned down to peer under Watson's umbrella. He stared at Watson for a long moment before sighing and walking towards the taxi that pulled to the curb. "You should vary the length of your waiting…five minutes is boring. It's starting to kill the suspense."

There was an awkward silence. Watson's blinked. "Okay."

"Come on. This isn't going to work if we're standing here."

"Exactly what are we doing?" Watson followed Sherlock into the cab.

"I'll explain over dinner, but we need to stop by a local corner shop and locate a few items. "

"Will we be eating dinner tonight…or do you mean you'll explain tomorrow." Watson inquired after Sherlock gave the cabbie instructions. "Just so I'll know what else to grab."

Sherlock smiled and put his arm around Watson's shoulders. He leaned in as close as possible, his mouth a breath from Watson's ear. His long tapered fingers went up against the sides of Watson's face to suppress the sound of his rather cryptic whisper. Watson sat up straighter, his fingers convulsed around the hilt of his umbrella, before his mouth opened in surprise. Sherlock's voice was pitched low and deep as he spoke five words that frightened and intrigued Watson at the same time.

"We're here…unless you two lovebirds want to keep the meter running." The cabby was staring at them in the rearview mirror. "I won't tell your secrets."

"We're not…lovebirds." Watson couldn't tell if he was flushing, but he was aware that Sherlock still had his arm around his shoulder.

"Keep the meter running. I'll be back in five minutes." Sherlock patted Watson's shoulder absently before dashing out into the rain without an umbrella.

"Not lovebirds? Not yet." The cabby laughed. "No need to look so surprised. My brother's got a nice boyfriend. Keeps a clean house. Cooks dinner every night. They get along better than me and the missus. You'll make him happy as a lark. You look the type."

"We're just flat-mates." Watson muttered as his phone rang. He didn't recognize the number. "Hello."

"Dr. Watson. You sound almost annoyed. Would you mind telling me exactly why Sherlock is in the corner shop purchasing cigarettes and a box of chocolates?"

"Mycroft?"

"You're trying my patience, John."

"I don't know."

"You know everything he does. It's amazing the way he's decided to confide in you. I know you've saved his life…kept him out of scrapes. It's not that I'm not grateful. You're filling the gap in certain respects, but he's not working and Sherlock always gets into trouble when he's not working."

Watson sighed. "You don't need to worry."

"Make sure of it and I'll be sure to keep your little secret."

"What are you talking about?"

"He's going to notice if you don't put his stuff back. You don't want him investigating you out of boredom, John." Mycroft chuckled.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mycroft."

"One navy blue scarf, one black man's dress shirt, a nicotine patch—unused thankfully—you have some taste. And the subtext of the blog. If my dear Sherlock wasn't so damn full of himself, he wouldn't be so blind to the fact that your flattery hides a much different sort of affection."

"This conversation is over." Watson hung up the phone. He stared out of the window, his breathing unsteady.

Sherlock burst into the cab with a bag and instructions for their next stop. He settled back for the ride. "Mycroft ring yet?"

"Just now. He's worried."

"Perfect." Sherlock smiled. "The game is on, my dear Watson. The game is on."

John nodded just as a text message flashed. He opened his phone casually out of Sherlock's line of sight. A different anonymous number had sent:

 **Just remember, I'm keeping our little secret. MH**


	2. "You're the Secret I Keep"

"You're the Secret I Keep"

The taxi left them on the corner of a back street. Sherlock was out on the sidewalk and halfway down the street before Watson could pay the man. He dashed after Sherlock, forgetting to let up his umbrella in his haste. The slender detective paused at the entrance to a parking garage. "I think this will do well enough. It will be at least five minutes before he knows where the cab dropped us. We'll need to pick something practical."

"Practical for what?"

Sherlock tilted his umbrella to cover Watson. He flashed one of his devilish smiles and winked. "A drive into the country."

Watson blinked. "A drive into the country?"

"You can drive can't you?"

"Of course—why—oh, you can't drive, can you?"

"Unnecessary."

"Then why do you have a car?"

"Who said I have a car? Come on, John. We've wasted two minutes chatting." Sherlock walked forward with a purpose.

Watson remained in the rain for only a few seconds before following. Sherlock chose a practical black car by tapping it with his umbrella. "Thisone. The door is unlocked."

"How do you-why do I even bother asking anymore?" Watson slid into the driver's seat and reached under the dash. He found the correct wires without much trouble. He didn't ask how Sherlock knew he would be able to hotwire the car. It might have been the cut of his hair or the shape of his mouth. Sherlock was busy tossing items out of the dash.

Ten minutes later, Watson was driving out of the city towards an unknown destination in the country.

"Sherlock…"

"Yes, John?"

"I would prefer it if you didn't get me arrested. Lestrade was nice enough to help me out with the graffiti charges, but I still had to do that community service. I don't want to pick up trash from the park again." Watson glanced at Sherlock. The consulting detective was staring out the window as if counting rain drops. Their knees brushed every once and awhile in a curve or when Sherlock readjusted his position. It was impossible not to touch at some point. Their hands brushed when Watson started to turn on the radio. Sherlock didn't want the distraction of noise.

"You're soaking wet." Sherlock lifted the lapel of Watson's jacket for a moment before smoothing it back into place. He hadn't spoken for half an hour. His fingers lingered on Watson's shoulder for a moment longer than necessary, but he didn't snatch his hand away. He withdrew his fingers almost reluctantly.

"Where are we going?"

"The country house."

"You have a country house?"

"My family. Mycroft lives there during the summer if convenient. He quite fond of the country life. Mycroft won't think to look there for at least a day or two. It's perfect. Private. Secluded." Sherlock turned, back to the door, facing Watson.

"Why are we going there?" Watson glanced at Sherlock. "We're not taking a vacation."

"There were reports of disappearances in the area. I didn't think it was worth my time, but I'm so bored. It's a day out of the city. Maybe if I'm gone, some criminals will come out to play. We'll spend a day in the country and return to mayhem at its best." Sherlock smiled. "It's perfect."

Watson nodded. "I can see how you would think so, Sherlock. How long before we get to the house?"

"An hour more. I think I'll take a nap. I want to be fresh when we arrive." Sherlock shifted again. He leaned his seat back and folded his arms. "Just stay on the road. Wake me when we pass through - and I'll give you directions from there."

"Fine. Mind if I listen to the radio?"

"Yes." Sherlock retorted before closing his eyes. "You've a lovely baritone…perfect for the shower. Not the car."

Watson pulled off on the side of the road when he could barely keep his eyes open. He yawned and wished for a warm cup of tea because he had started shiver despite the heater being on at full blast. It was useless to keep going if he would run them off the road. Sherlock was sleeping soundly. Watson wouldn't wake him. The genius couldn't drive. He placed the car in park, checked the lock on the doors and leaned his own seat back. He would sleep for an hour or two and start off again.

He woke with his head pillowed against something warm and solid, but he wasn't exactly sure what it might be. He was hot and cold all at once, his body was shaking. He coughed violently and his head pounded. "Damn."

"We're almost there, John." Sherlock's voice sounded hollow and strange. Watson squinted in the sunlight. He could feel Sherlock's hand against his forehead. "You'll feel better after you have an aspirin and a cup of tea."

"Are you driving?"

"It's not difficult. Press this, turn that…stay on the road. I don't see why people get so excited over it." Sherlock shrugged.

"Oh." Watson didn't move. He wasn't sure how long he had been leaning against Sherlock's shoulder. But Sherlock's hand was on his forehead, reassuring and wonderful.

"You were mumbling in your sleep. You shouldn't worry about me, John."

"What did I say?" His voice cracked slightly.

"I'll record it next time."


	3. "You're the Sweet to My Mean"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You're the Sweet to My Mean"

"You're the Sweet to My Mean"

Sherlock had a plan when they left Baker Street, but his plans involved Watson at full capacity. Watson's fever steadily increased since Sherlock shoved him over into the passenger's seat and started driving. His flushed cheeks and cold hands were textbook, but the mumbled conversation was altogether unnerving. He knew Watson was fascinated with their work. He thought his rather clear cut down on their first evening together would set boundaries. He needed the boundaries between them. If Watson would just keep his distance, Sherlock would need worry about the distraction of a potential lover. Watson was steady and capable. Watson could be relied on in any situation.

"Don't tell…" Watson coughed and groaned. "Don't tell—Sherlock."

"Don't tell Sherlock what?"

"Took it."

"What did you take, John?" Sherlock turned down the drive to the country house. He stopped in front of the house and leaned over his flat mate. "John? What did you take?"

"Your eyes are so blue." Watson sighed.

Sherlock flushed. He could stand Watson complimenting his work. It was endearing. However, there was an uncomfortable tightening in his chest when their eyes locked at just the precise moment. The rush of adrenaline in a case made it easy to compartmentalize. He could be married to his work and John could tag along, but he couldn't balance anything else. He didn't want to have to balance anything else…did he?

"Young Mr. Sherlock!" The housekeeper that rushed out to meet him when he stepped out of the car was much the same as she had been in childhood. Round. Comfortable. Rosy cheeked. Idiotic.

"Good morning, Mrs. Kirkpatrick." Sherlock was opening the passenger side door. "We'll be staying for the next few days. I'll need aspirin and tea immediately."

"Why, yes, sir!" She waved a hand towards the maid standing in the doorway. "Bethanne! Make a tray and bring it up to Mr. Sherlock's suite. It looks like Dr. Watson is under the weather."

Sherlock turned on heel. "Did Mycroft tell you to expect us?"

"No, sir. Bethanne saw you coming up the walk. Mr. Holmes sent us pictures and to put in your new suite. He said he was inviting you and Dr. Watson for a weekend this summer. Striking pictures, Mr. Sherlock. You're so grown up and Dr. Watson is so handsome in his uniform." Mrs. Kirkpatrick beamed. "He looks rather done in, poor dear. He should have a hot shower and straight to bed."

"Where are we?" Watson demanded as he climbed out of the car. He leaned heavily on Sherlock's arm. "Why is everything so damn bright and green?"

"Country. Come on, John. Shower, aspirin, tea and bed for you. I could do with the same." Sherlock helped Watson inside. He liked the weight of Watson against him. Watson tried so hard to be strong and stoic. He wanted to stand on his own two feet, but their friendship had changed that stubborn independence. Watson was starting to open his eyes to alternate ways of thinking. His stubbornness was still there; Sherlock needed it. He needed Watson as his voice of reason—even if he rarely listened. There was something nice about it.

"Here we are. Mr. Holmes thought that this suite would be perfect for you and the doctor. There's a lovely view of the gardens and a private balcony. There are fresh clothes in the wardrobe and toiletries in the bathroom. He had a computer and all sorts of gadgets installed…plus a nice big bed. You're so tall, Mr. Sherlock…" She flushed as she said it.

Sherlock nodded. "Of course. My brother likes to think of everything. Thank you, Mrs. Kirkpatrick. We'll manage from here."

"Yes, sir." She retreated into the hall.

"Where's my room?" Watson inquired.

"This is our room, John. My brother seems to think we share a bed."

"You don't even sleep in a bed." Watson retorted. "Why is it so cold in here?"

"You're sick."

"Really?"

"You should take a shower…do you think you can manage to stand up? I don't need you to have a concussion as well as a cold."

"I'll manage…but I don't have any clothes." Watson moved purposefully towards the W.C.

Sherlock opened the wardrobe. He picked up a striped shirt in black and white and a pair of black sweats on the shelf. "These should be your size. I'll lay them out on the bed."

While Watson showered, Bethanne arrived with tea and scones. Sherlock waved her away while he checked his e-mail. No new cases. "Damn!"

"I'm guessing it's not good news." Watson was leaning in the bathroom door with a towel loosely wrapped around his waist. His damp hair stuck out at odd angles. His tan had faded over the past few months, but there was a sharp contrast between the skin on his arms and the pale contours of his stomach. Watson smiled— a self-conscious smile as if his private thoughts were slightly naughty and oh-so-amusing.

"Tea?" Sherlock had changed into pajamas and a robe. He moved from the desk to the sofa with a sweep of his robe. "Get dressed."

Watson dropped his towel by the bed without a hint of embarrassment.

Sherlock sloshed hot tea on his hand.

"Thanks." After dressing, Watson sat on the couch beside Sherlock. He swallowed two aspirin and a glass of water before leaning back and closing his eyes.

"John?"

"Yeah, Sherlock?"

"I was worried."

Watson turned his head towards Sherlock and opened his eyes. "I'm okay."

Sherlock played with the ends of his robe belt. "Good."

"I am. I just have a cold."

"I've never taken care of anyone with a cold before—"

"You did a good job, Sherlock."

Sherlock faced him. "You should get some sleep."

"You said I mumbled in my sleep…what…what did I say?"

"Nonsense." Sherlock smiled. "Take the bed. I'll sleep on the couch."


	4. You're the Sweet to My Mean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You're the Sweet to My Mean"

"You're the Sweet to My Mean"

The solution was easy. Five nicotine patches into a sleepless night, Sherlock Holmes had the solution to ending his boredom. He nearly leapt from the sofa, a sweep of his robe and a few steps and he was standing on the foot of the bed. Watson was sprawled across the bed in a tangle of sheets.

Sherlock grinned as he climbed onto the bed and straddled Watson's waist. He gripped the striped black and white shirt in one hand dragging the blonde's face closer. "John."

Watson's hand gripped Sherlock's wrist out of natural reflex. He flipped him with a twist of hips and shoved him against the mattress. " What the hell—Sherlock?"

"I'm tired of being bored." Sherlock exhaled. "This isn't boring."

"Why now?" Watson didn't release him. He leaned in closer, trying to read Sherlock's expression. Watson's fingers would leave bruises on Sherlock's wrist—a tingling sensation was building at the tips of Sherlock's fingers from loss of blood.

"The rules are simple, John. Are you listening?" Sherlock's turned his head so his lips were a breath from Watson's ear. "Whenever I say…where ever I say…however I say."

Watson laughed. "I always follow your lead. You said you weren't interested. You're married to your work."

"I'm still married to my work."

"I'm a distraction." Watson whispered.

"I knew that from day one."

Sherlock winked and brushed his lips against Watson's ear. He loved the involuntary shudder that ripped through Watson. He let his teeth close around Watson's earlobe.

"You're fascinating." Watson gasped. "I can't think while you're doing that—"

"So don't think." Sherlock let his nose graze Watson's cheek as he shifted. "Distract me."

Watson placed his hands on either side of him, balancing so that his weight lifted from Sherlock's chest. He stared down at Sherlock. "How does this end, Sherlock?"

"I don't know. How does it begin?"

Watson kissed him.

"Harder." Sherlock protested. "I'm not a milkmaid, John. You don't have to be gentle."

"What if I want to be gentle?" Watson pressed his mouth against Sherlock's throat. "What if I want to be so painstakingly slow that you'll beg me for every single touch?"

Sherlock tried to move suggestively, but Watson's hand was underneath his shirt, moving in slow circles—and he suddenly didn't want to move at all. Watson paused to unbutton each button of the pajama top before helping him out of it. His methodical touch was enough to irk Sherlock if it hadn't felt so damn good. He tried to rush Watson, sneaking kisses there, sliding his hand there, but Watson was determined to take his time.

"You're killing me, John." Sherlock let his fingers slide across Watson's jaw.

"Good. 'cause you're insane." Watson gripped the waist of Sherlock's pajama bottoms and tugged. His feverish eyes narrowed. "And I'm an idiot because I'm in love with you."

* * *

Watson woke with one cheek pressed against the wide plank floor. He could feel the sunlight on his skin, warming him to the point of euphoria. His hand was resting on something warm and solid. He smiled. Sherlock. He propped himself on one elbow, yawning and watching Sherlock as he slept. The consulting detective was always at odds. He could sit for hours in contemplation or move at such a speed it was difficult to keep up, but there was no median. It should have surprised him that Sherlock moved from practiced indifference to unabashed interest.

He hadn't ever considered a real relationship with Sherlock. The unattainable Sherlock Holmes—married to his work—uninteresting in anyone and anything that distracted him from the most important things. It wasn't a question of whether or not he was comfortable with being with a man or a woman. If you made that perfect connection with someone and the attraction was there—why wouldn't you act on it? Harry would be amused if she ever found out. She kept asking him what was stopping him from taking his relationship with Sarah to the next level. He hadn't ever admitted the truth to her…or to himself.

He stretched silently and padded across the room to check the clock and his phone. One new message sent around noon.

**John. Tell Sherlock new case. Return to London at once. MH**

At least Sherlock's brother seemed unaware of their destination and activities. John yawned again as he found clothes. Sherlock hadn't moved. The pattern of bruises forming on his shoulders arms and back were well deserved. The bite mark on his neck was obvious, angry and purpling. The two on his shoulder weren't quite as deep, but would remain for several days. Sherlock was quite innovative and energetic if not selfish in the sack.

He was washing his face when it happened.

"John!"

"Just freshening up a bit, Sherlock. Mycroft sent a text. There's a case waiting for you in London."

"John!"

Watson dried his face before reaching for toothbrush and toothpaste. "You know you could've been a little more discreet with the bites…if you want to be discreet that is. I'm going to have to wear shirts with collars for at least a week. I look like I've been attacked. People will talk."

"JOHN!"

"I realized something. This really isn't going to change our relationship. It will be more exciting yes—but—realistically—other than the addition of sex…" John quickly brushed his teeth and rinsed before walking back into the bedroom. "Oh, dear."

Sherlock leaned against the bedpost completely nude. "Three minutes. I'm glad for the variety, but I'd appreciate if you would hand me my clothes."

Watson blinked. "You can't pick up your own clothes?"

"I'm a little sore." Sherlock flushed.

'Why don't you have a shower…or...er…a bath?" Watson bit his lip. "I'm sorry."

"I don't mind it." Sherlock stepped forward. He cleared his throat. "I agree. Nothing need change. We live together. Eat together. Work together. You'll not need to see Sarah anymore—"

"We're co-workers. I am a doctor, Sherlock." Watson sighed as Sherlock passed. "She's just a friend."

"But she wishes for more—"

"I may have at one point thought there might be something more…but it's out of the question now."

"Good."

"Fine."

"I won't be long."

"Good."

"Fine. John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"You're more than just a distraction to me."

"I know."

Watson set about picking up clothes and tidying the bedroom once he heard water filling the tub.

"JOHN!"

He opened the bathroom door. "What's the matter? What's happened?"

"I can't reach the soap."

"It's right there."

Sherlock winked and extended a wet hand. "I know."

* * *


End file.
